The Elite (10 page)

“Oh my God,” Sophie yelled out, holding a pair of black Dior hot pants up to her tiny torso. “I have so many pairs of 8 6

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these shorts—it’s like a fucking disease with me!” Phoebe giggled from the depths of a white cashmere sweater she was pulling over her head. “I’m trying them on anyway,” Sophie said decisively, throwing the shorts over her arm.

There was no way Casey was trying anything on—that was for sure. Not only was it pointless, since she
really
couldn’t afford to buy anything, but she’d probably wind up ripping a Missoni sweater as she pulled it over her enormous head, and that the salesgirls, wherever they were hiding, would beat her with old issues of
Vogue
until she surrendered her credit card, which her mother had given her in case of emergencies
only
.

Pulling a ruffled Theory sundress in ocean blues and greens from the overstuffed rack, Casey wondered if a back- to- school outfit might be just the kind of emergency her mother was referring to . . .

Sophie’s phone began to beep nosily from the depths of her Marc by Marc Jacobs cream leather tote. She dug it out distractedly and surveyed the waiting text message. “Its Mad,” she said, dropping the pile of Ralph Lauren plaid skirts she was currently holding to the floor in a heap of tartan. “She’s coming to meet us.”

Casey’s stomach immediately dropped to her beat- up green Pumas. Perfect. Ever since that scene in the park yesterday, Casey had been dreading this moment. Madison made Casey feel like a second- grader with chocolate- pudding- stained hands, or like she had a giant booger hanging out of her nose at all times. And what was she going to say anyway—nice dress, but I think I like your boyfriend? Yeah,
that
would undoubtedly 8 7

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go over stunningly—like everything else that came out of her mouth lately. Casey looked down at the American Ea gle dirty-wash capris and the plain white tank she’d bought at the mall before she’d left the Midwest, and wondered how long it would take Madison to say something less than supportive about her disaster of a wardrobe. Well, it could’ve been

worse—at least she wasn’t wearing Abercrombie again . . .

When Madison walked in, giant blue- tinted Betsey John-son shades covering her eyes, the sweet rosy scent of Marc Jacobs Blush perfume trailing in her wake, Casey wanted to run and hide under the tall racks of clothes the way she did when she was four and her mother would drag her shopping. But somehow Casey knew that diving under a pile of Diane von Furstenberg wrap dresses wouldn’t exactly solve her problems.

If she was ever going to break through the thick ice surrounding the impenetrable Madison Macallister, she was going to have to suck it up and face her new frenemy—head on.

“What up?” Mad intoned with as much excitement as the computer in 2001, air- kissing both Sophie and Phoebe so as not to risk smudging the shiny pink DuWop gloss coating her lips. “How’s the make over going?” Madison stared at Casey from over her shades with a sweeping glance that registered every

thing from Casey’s

out-

of-

control curly head, to her

dirty- sneakered feet. “Or haven’t you
started
yet?”

Casey noticed that even though Madison’s voice dripped sarcasm, as usual, that she immediately started biting her bottom lip while flipping through racks of clothes, the hangers clanging against each other with every angry flick of her obvi-8 8

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ously practiced wrist. Was she still mad about yesterday? Did she want to shove a hanger in Casey’s eye, blinding her instantly so she could no longer moon over her not-really-

maybe- sort of boyfriend anymore? What ever the case, it was obvious to Casey that this girl had mastered the art of being pissy. In fact, Casey thought, watching Madison survey a printed halter top, then flick past it, shuddering lightly, she could probably offer a master course on bitchy clothes- flinging at the New School—Diva Dressing 101.

“How about this?” Sophie said, holding up a Nile green linen sheath dress. “With flat gold sandals, I think it would rock.”

“Uh, yeah—if she were going to Tavern on the Green with her fucking
parents
, maybe,” Madison snapped, pulling the dress from Sophie’s hands and shoving it back on the rack.

“Not Meadowlark on her first day of
ju nior year
.” Sophie shrugged her shoulders daintily, shooting Casey a smile that said, “She can’t help being such a bitch—but we kind of love her anyway.”

Better you than me
, Casey thought, as Phoebe ran over with a pair of Paper Denim and Cloth jeans, and a white Imitation of Christ tank embellished with rhinestones.

“I’ve got it,” Phoebe purred, setting the clothes on the rack directly in front of Madison and smoothing her sleek, dark ponytail with one hand.

“Got what?” Madison said, cackling, running one hand over the super- soft cotton of the tank. “Dementia? She’s not going gallery hopping in Chelsea for fuck’s sake!” Madison 8 9

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tossed the jeans to the floor and prepared to do the same with the tank. “Hang on a minute,” she said, holding the shirt up to her chest and walking over to the full- length mirror. “This wouldn’t be half bad on me, actually,” Madison mused, turning from the left to the right, and examining her predictably perfect self in the long sheet of reflective glass.

“But I haven’t accessorized yet!” Phoebe whined, picking the jeans up and placing them back on the rack. “I thought with some chunky silver jewelry and chrome aviators, maybe?”

“There’s no accessorizing your way out of this one,” Madison drawled, throwing the sparkly tank on top of her Fendi bag she had tossed on the floor like a used Kleenex. “It’s entirely the wrong message.” Casey watched speechless as Madison marched over to the sale rack, her sandals clacking decisively. “Now this,” she said, her voice radiating satisfaction, “is what we call perfection.” In her hands Madison held a pale yellow, off- the- shoulder Nanette Lepore sundress, shot through with the faintest lines of metallic gold thread, an understated ruffle decorating the knee- length hem. “With some cute wedge sandals,” Madison said, walking over to Casey and holding the dress up to her shoulders, “it will be
beyond
cute-ness.” Madison looked into Casey’s gray eyes and smiled, but since she was still wearing those enormous shades, Casey couldn’t quite tell whether Madison was laughing with her—

or
at
her.

“Maybe I’ll try it on,” Casey mumbled, surreptitiously fingering the price tag, her face turning white as she flipped it over, peering at the numbers scribbled in red pen. $350? On 9 0

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sale? Casey felt dizzily nauseous—like she might at any moment go completely Exorcist and projectile vomit green slime all over Madison’s perfect coral pedicure. “Umm, I don’t know,” Casey said weakly, hanging the dress on the nearest rack before she fainted. “I’m not sure it’s really me after all.”

“What are you
talking
about?” Madison said, grabbing the dress off the rack and pushing it back into Casey’s hands. “Of course it’s you! It couldn’t be
more
you—and to be honest, it’s a
hell
of a lot better than what you have on right now.” Casey wished the floor would simply open up and swallow her whole—along with everything in the store she didn’t have the money to pay for.

“It really is to die for, Casey,” Sophie said, fingering the smooth cotton. “You’ll be completely adorabubble!” she squealed loudly, grabbing Casey’s hand in her own and flinging her bangs from her eye with a practiced toss of her head.

“Drew won’t be able to keep his eyes
off
you!”

“Oy.” Phoebe rubbed her ear with one hand. “No more lattes for you.” she said grumpily. “I think you broke my ear -

drum.”

“Come on, Casey.” Madison’s voice was honey- sweet. “Go try it on—we’ll wait here.”

Casey could feel herself beginning to sweat. She could feel it rolling down her sides and into the denim of her capris.

Gross. How was she going to get out of this one? Maybe she could buy the dress and return it later—except she didn’t know if the limit on her mom’s credit card even went up that high, and how would she explain to Madison why she wasn’t wearing 9 1

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the dress tomorrow at school? No, the only thing she could do was to tell the truth—and if they thought she was a loser and dumped her outside on the steaming pavement of Madison Avenue, so be it.

“Actually, guys,” she said, staring at the floor, “I kind of blew my whole allowance last week getting ready to move here.” Casey could feel her cheeks getting redder and redder—

her whole face felt like she’d dipped it in gasoline and lit a match. She could feel her palms sweating all over the soft yellow dress in her hands, and she took a deep breath. “So I’ll just have to make do with what I have for a while.”

OK, so it wasn’t exactly the truth—but she was going to look stupid enough as it was. There was no sense informing The Bram Clan that she’d probably
never
have the kind of money necessary to shop at Barneys, was there? Hadn’t they figured it out already? She was a clueless loser from ass- crack Illinois, who didn’t know a Manolo from a Mint Milano, and what’s worse, before this totally humiliating moment, she’d half- convinced herself that she was actually fitting in with the most pop u lar girls in school—hell, on the entire Upper East Side, or on the
planet
, for all she knew. Now, all she wanted to do was go back to Nanna’s apartment and eat a pint of Häagen- Dazs chocolate-chocolate chip straight from the carton until her brain was totally numb.

Casey looked up, watching as Madison slid her shades off, her green eyes softening as she took in Casey’s flushed, embarrassed face. Casey noticed that Madison’s eye makeup was smudged—almost as if she’d been crying. But what the hell 9 2

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could Madison Macallister ever have to cry about? Casey couldn’t begin to imagine, but she hoped against hope that some day she might just find out.

“Don’t worry about it.” Madison took the dress from Casey’s hands brusquely, all business now, and proceeded to the register. “That’s what Amex is for,” she called over her shoulder.

“Or mommy and daddy,” Sophie trilled, shoving Phoebe in the ribs.

“Or boyfriends,” Phoebe added slyly, pulling her white Chloé sunglasses off her head and down over her dark eyes.

When Madison put the large black Barneys shopping bag into Casey’s hands, she felt like throwing her arms around the aloof, groomed- within- an- inch- of- her- life, Upper East Side princess she’d only just met, and giving her a giant hug. So, before she could think too much about it, she did just that.

Maybe we’re going to be friends after all!
Casey thought with no small amount of glee as she leaned in and grabbed Madison, wrapping her freckled arms around Madison’s slender frame. “Thanks so much!” Casey gushed, squeezing Madison’s alarmingly bony back. “This is so amazing of you!”

Maybe we’ll even become best friends
, Casey thought, lost in her own happiness and the smell of Madison’s Marc Jacobs perfume.
Some random guy definitely wasn’t worth causing so
much chaos
—
and shouldn’t girls stick together anyway?
After all, the last thing she wanted to do was piss Madison off again, especially after she’d just been so nice to her for absolutely no reason she could think of.

Casey was so lost in her own thoughts that she failed to 9 3

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realize that Madison wasn’t exactly hugging her back until she pulled away. When she stepped back, Madison’s face was frozen into a polite smile.
Whoops.
Casey’s face fell slightly, and her grip on her shopping bag tightened, her knuckles turning white.
Maybe befriending the most pop u lar girl in school wasn’t
going to be that easy after all . . .

9 4

games

people

play

Phoebe Reynaud sat smack in the middle of the enormous white shag rug covering the bleached oak wood of her bedroom floor, trying
not
to listen to the sound of her parents arguing. You’d think in an apartment the size of a football field the sound of raised voices wouldn’t be a problem—but you’d be wrong.
You could probably hear them arguing all the way in
Paris
, Phoebe thought, turning up the volume on her iPod dock to help block out the shouting, filling the custom-designed, oval- shaped room with the soothing sounds of the new Feist CD instead. She wished she were back in Paris—the perfect place for someone like Phoebe, who not only wor-shipped fashion, but who also aspired to create it someday.

She’d spent the month of June at her grandmother’s apartment J E N N I F E R B A N A S H

just off the Rue Saint- Honoré, popping into Colette and Dior to try on jewel- toned velvet mini skirts and pairs of gorgeous Swarovski crystal– encrusted stilettos, or sitting at a sidewalk café with her sketch pad, drinking Perrier with lemon. If she could’ve even remotely concentrated with all the screaming and yelling going on around her, Phoebe would’ve grabbed her pad and drew the silk shantung blouse that had been haunting her since she woke up this morning, and that proceeded to linger at the back of her mind all day. Instead she was curled up on her floor in a ball, trying not to listen to the way her dad was hurling insults at her mother in his own bizarre blend of Franglish.

Tu ne comprends pas la situation! You’re nothing more than a
common slut! Rien!

She couldn’t hear exactly what her mother screamed in return—but her accent was flawless. Even thought she’d spent at least a month of every summer since she was eight in Paris, Phoebe’s French skills were still rudimentary at best. Phoebe had no aptitude for languages whatsoever, and she tended to panic when someone asked her even the simplest question—

much to her mother’s complete dismay. Her menu French was very good: She could order just about anything at a bistro or café with no problem, but her conversational French had always been lousy, no matter how hard she studied. Of course, this was in sharp contrast to her mother, who, despite a childhood spent mainly in New Haven, Connecticut, spoke fluent French—along with Italian, Spanish,
and
German.